


Respite

by u_andcloud



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: M/M, Post-Timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 16:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21211922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/u_andcloud/pseuds/u_andcloud
Summary: In the spaces between battles, where his life's purpose can't guide his every action, Finn finds himself keeping unexpected company.





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sismorphene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sismorphene/gifts).

> Since this is a birthday gift for my dear friend and fantastic supportive beta reader (especially for FE4 stuff), it hasn't really been beta-read. But one of the first messages she ever sent me was about Finn/Lewyn fic recs, which is kind of hilarious given there are six fics in the whole tag, so I hope that adding a seventh is an appropriate gift. Happy birthday, Elsa!!! <3
> 
> I was pretty sure I had a handle on writing Forseti!Lewyn after that last FE4 fic--so of course this time I wrote 11k from Finn's perspective, and I still feel like I'm trying to figure him out. Hope he sounds okay.

“So _this_ is where you disappeared to.”

At the sound of a voice, Finn turned away from the familiar view out across the fields laid out below Leonster castle to see a certain bard-turned-king-turned-tactician leaning in his doorway, dangling a bottle of dark liquid from his fingers. There was a smile on his lips, but his eyes were as unreadable as they had been every time Finn had seen him since the arrival of Seliph and his army at Leonster. Without waiting for an invitation, Lewyn sauntered into the room and settled on the faded cushion set on the wide windowsill, then turned his green-eyed gaze on Finn.

“I thought we might deserve to celebrate after the day’s victory,” he explained, gesturing with the bottle. “Would you care to join me…?”

“What is that?” Finn asked, eyeing the bottle, even though it was obvious enough that the dusty vessel had been pilfered from the castle’s wine cellar. Lewyn just waggled his eyebrows and popped the cork.

“Is that a yes?”

Still avoiding an answer, Finn glanced back in the direction of the rest of the castle. Even though it was quiet up here, in the lonely quarter where he had taken up residence since his occupation here with Leif, Nanna, and their ragtag liberation army, there was a feeling about the structure today, a liveliness that these halls had not seen in some time. Their army had grown tenfold with the arrival of Seliph’s troops, exceeding even the numbers of the Empire’s occupying forces.

“They’re all carrying on a celebration of their own,” Lewyn said, in response to an unasked question. “Sharing stories, getting to know each other…it’s charming, really. But I couldn’t help but notice that an important face was missing. What are you doing all the way up here?”

Finn shook his head. He wasn’t sure himself why he had eschewed the gathering. “There is still so much work left to do,” he said finally.

“And they all know that,” Lewyn agreed. “But I commend them for having the wisdom to understand that they can appreciate a small victory.”

Suspecting he had been insulted, Finn turned back towards Lewyn. “The coming battles will be among some of the most difficult,” he said. “I wanted to focus.”

“To hear Prince Leif tell it, you have done nothing but focus for the last fifteen years,” he said. “You’re correct, of course. Taking Connaught and Manster will not be easy, even with all these soldiers. But that’s all the more reason to refresh ourselves while we have the chance.”

Lewyn produced two mismatched cups from his robes and poured a generous portion of wine into a tarnished chalice, which he pressed into Finn’s hands before pouring another for himself. Finn considered the dark liquid, catching sight of his own distorted reflection frowning back at him. Even in such an imperfect mirror, he could tell how haggard he looked—hardly the picture of victory.

But still alive, somehow. The very fact seemed both improbable and inevitable—after all, his promise to Lord Quan had not yet been fulfilled. Despite the desperate odds, he couldn’t die yet.

He turned back to Lewyn, who had placed the half-empty bottle on the floor and was lounging in the windowsill, the picture of ease. He gestured invitingly to the space opposite him, and Finn sat primly on the edge of the window seat, eying his wine.

He didn’t know what Lewyn was doing here, both _here _in this room, and _here _with this army, while there was a kingdom in the north still struggling under the Empire’s rule. When so many good, honorable people had died in the massacre nearly two decades ago, why had the carefree bard, of all people, been one of the few to survive? Finn struggled enough with his own escape from the tragedies of the past; he spent every day atoning for the fact that he had not perished alongside Lord Quan and Lady Ethlyn.

He knew he had no option but to be grateful that Seliph’s army had arrived here to rescue them in their hour of dire need, and yet—

“Are you expecting me to offer you a toast, as our _savior?”_ Finn asked, somewhat more acidly than he had intended. He remembered to whom he was speaking a moment too late. Even if the man beside him did not much resemble it, Lewyn was still royalty. Finn looked up, an apology on his lips. "That is, King—"

But Lewyn was waving a hand and offering a knowing smile.

“No, no, that wasn’t what I was suggesting at all.” He seemed unfazed by the remark, and perhaps even a little amused. “By the way, if your knightly constitution can suffer it, I would prefer not to be ‘king’ here. It is hardly a title I deserve.”

Perhaps Finn agreed, but he was surprised to hear Lewyn say as much. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and Lewyn didn’t fail to notice the motion.

“No argument, not even from you,” he noted with a laugh. “I see my reputation has preceded me.”

The polite part of him _did _want to protest, but Finn ignored it for now. “Would you refute it?”

Lewyn gave the question a brief consideration. “No,” he replied. “Anything you have heard about me is likely deserved.”

His tone was not particularly repentant. Finn narrowed his eyes, thinking of Ced, Karen and the other green-haired pegasus knight he had seen among Seliph’s army, but decided not to press the subject.

“But I do think we should toast,” Lewyn added. He shook his head at Finn’s protests and raised his cup, his eyes sparkling. “Perhaps…to the tireless protector of Leonster, Sir Fi—”

Finn scowled and moved to put down his wine, and Lewyn chuckled.

“Fine, then,” he sighed, and started again. “To the brave sons and daughters of our dear fallen friends,” he said instead, and this time Finn obligingly lifted his cup and drank. “To Light, to the Liberation Army, to Grannvale and Thracia restored,” Lewyn went on. They drank.

Lewyn went on, names and causes spilling from his lips with the even rhythm of a poem or prayer. They toasted their young leaders, their growing army, and victory. They raised their glasses to Sigurd, to Quan, to Ethlyn…and then at that point, Lewyn pointed out that they could hardly forget the rest of their lost friends, and more wine was poured. Oifey and Shannan were not forgotten, the health of all their soldiers was demanded, and by the time Lewyn had run out of ideas, Finn was feeling the warmth of the wine settling into his limbs and dulling the buzz of anxiety at the base of his skull. Faint sounds of a feast still echoed from the lower sections of the castle, but Finn was content to remain draped on the window seat opposite Lewyn, idly turning his empty chalice over in his hands. The niggling thought that he should check on Leif and Nanna was suppressed by the heaviness in his body.

Exhausted of wine and toasts, Lewyn fell to telling stories for his audience of one. Finn was surprised by how easily the words seemed to fall from Lewyn’s lips—he had been sure, years ago, that Lewyn had only ever been a bard in name, but he could weave a tale well, with just the right amount of suspense and comedic timing that Finn actually felt a smile tugging at his lips. Caught up in the tales despite himself, Finn did not notice the castle go quiet around them until Lewyn finished one last story and fell silent. The candles lighting the room had burnt almost to stubs, and Finn’s eyelids were drooping.

“Your back will thank you to find the bed, Finn,” Lewyn remarked, nudging his shoulder as he stood and collected their cups and the empty bottle. Resigning himself to the fact that Lewyn was undoubtedly correct, Finn also dragged himself to his feet, suffering a brief bout of lightheadedness as his body recalled how ill-accustomed he had become to alcohol. Lewyn, he noticed with some irritation, seemed unaffected as he shepherded Finn to the bed. The room had gone dark by the time he settled to the mattress, although Finn hadn’t noticed Lewyn extinguish the candles.

“We’ll talk strategy tomorrow,” Lewyn assured him, and bade him goodnight.

It had been a strange evening, but Finn had little time to dwell on it. The Empire’s forces were closing in on all sides, and the celebratory mood at Leonster quickly vanished as the army prepared to face its next trial. In the midst of the fighting, Finn nearly forgot about the wine and the stories—certainly, he did not expect it to happen again.

Lewyn seemed to have other ideas.

When their armies reunited in Manster, the atmosphere was somewhat more sober than it had been in Leonster. Leif had finally freed Northern Thracia from the grip of the Empire and the Loptyr cult, but he seemed more pensive than usual in the aftermath, and even the news that his cousin was on his way from Connaught did not seem to lift his spirits. With a pang of guilt, Finn wondered if he should have waited a little longer to remind Leif of his duties to Leonster—Leif knew without being told what his responsibilities were, after all. The weight on his shoulders was immense, so it was only natural that, even after such a victory, he might be a little withdrawn.

So after a brief conversation, Finn elected to leave him be, and kept himself busy organizing rations and preparing supplies for the inevitable next conflict. When that was done, he found himself wandering the castle as evening faded to night. Preoccupied by his thoughts, he didn’t hear Lewyn fall into step beside him until the bard announced his presence with a light cough.

Finn had enough self-control that he didn’t quite _jump _at the sound, but he turned his head quickly and felt his nostrils flare with instincts that were still on high alert since their recent battle. Lewyn held up a hand, apologetic and placating.

“Your Maj—” Finn started to say, but caught himself. “Lewyn,” he exhaled, letting his heartbeat relax. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m bringing a message from Seliph,” Lewyn explained. “But it looks like his assistance won’t be necessary. Either way, the army is about half a day out. I’ve already informed Leif.”

“So you will be going back, then?” Finn inquired.

Lewyn shrugged. “It doesn’t really seem worth the effort. Seliph’s scouts will likely return the same message to him in a few hours. I thought I’d stay, at least until morning.”

“Well. If you are hungry, Prince Ced and I have just finished sorting our rations. There should be—”

“I’m quite all right, thanks,” Lewyn interrupted shortly.

Finn narrowed his eyes. “…have you spoken to Prince Ced?”

Lewyn just gave a mild smile that left his eyes dark. “I’m sure he is very busy. There’s no need for me to bother him.”

From his closed expression, Finn gathered he wouldn’t get any more from Lewyn on the topic of his son.

Glancing the bard over, Finn noticed that Lewyn wasn’t emptyhanded. Wrinkling his nose, he eyed the dark bottle in Lewyn’s grasp. “Looking to celebrate again?”

“Hmm,” Lewyn hummed. “Perhaps not to _celebrate, _because I confess that what you found here has left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. All I’m after is some company.”

_Just not your son’s company, _Finn thought.

Finn wasn’t sure exactly why he didn’t bother refusing—maybe it was simply more effort than he could muster after a day that had left him drained.

“Only if that did not come from the basement,” he said, thinking of the ruined temple far beneath their feet.

Lewyn chuckled, his eyes glinting. “Was that a _joke,_ Sir Finn? Wonders never cease.”

~ ~ ~

Lewyn poured their glasses and raised one toast to the day’s victory, but as he sipped at his wine, he became uncharacteristically reticent. Unable to hold back his curiosity any longer, Finn spoke up.

“Why are you avoiding Ced?”

Lewyn huffed out a short laugh. “You’ve spent plenty of time with him these last few months,” he said. “Do you even have to ask?”

“He hates you,” Finn stated.

“And he has every reason to.”

“You don’t seem concerned.”

Lewyn gazed into his wine. “It’s better this way, trust me.”

Finn shook his head. “He is one of the few here who has a chance to know his parents.” He thought about Leif, left with no memory of Ethlyn and Quan, and was unable to keep a tremor from his voice. “How can this be _better?”_

“There is no way for Ced to understand why I’ve done what I’ve done,” Lewyn replied. “And even if he could, I doubt he would forgive me.” He took a long sip of his wine and went on in a quieter voice, “He would be better off mourning me along with his mother.”

“How can you—”

“Finn.” Lewyn didn’t raise his voice, but his words cut through Finn’s increasing consternation. “You can’t possibly understand, either.”

“Then why are you here?” Finn returned. “It’s tiresome to follow a tactician who believes himself to be above the rest of his army.”

Lewyn’s brow creased. “I don’t—” He let out a breath. “You may not believe it, but I would never consider myself to be above even the lowliest page among us.”

Finn couldn’t detect a trace of insincerity in his words, but Lewyn’s voice rarely carried much emotion to begin with. He fell silent, suddenly tired of the argument, and considered his wine.

“If company was what you were after, you would have likely had more luck back in Seliph’s camp,” he observed. “I have never been much for conversation.”

“That’s alright,” Lewyn said, a small smile tilting his lips, “I still have plenty of stories.”

~ ~ ~

“Where did you _learn _all this?” Finn asked when Lewyn’s tale wound around to its conclusion. He couldn’t possibly be making them all up on the spot—while not exactly poems, there was too much rhythm and meter to the ballads for them not to have been passed down from somewhere.

“Amazing what you can pick up with an open ear and a good memory,” Lewyn replied with a wink, which wasn’t really an answer. But Lewyn was already moving on, asking if he had heard the one about the Verdanite king and the pirate maiden, and Finn was too polite to interrupt.

Later, he tried again with different tactics.

“How long were you in Agustria before you joined us?”

“Oh, something like two years,” Lewyn replied.

Finn frowned; he did not know enough about the trade of a bard to decide if that was long enough to store away so many stories in one’s memory.

“They must be writing songs about Belhalla now, too,” he mused instead, assuming that it was the wine that let him speak of the massacre so easily now—usually the words caught in his throat. _And about the ambush in the Yied._

“The story has traveled,” Lewyn agreed. “Traveled, and changed, as stories do. If you were to hear some versions, you might not even recognize the characters.”

Finn frowned at the thought. Perhaps it was only natural, but he didn’t like the idea of his comrades being misremembered. “Have you considered correcting the mistakes?”

Lewyn gave him a knowing smile, as though he understood Finn’s annoyance. “I have,” he said, “but I would prefer to see it to its proper conclusion before I start writing any songs. Tragedies are beginning to tire me.”

Lewyn was gone by the time the sun rose; Finn woke with a stiff neck thanks to the couch he had fallen asleep on, but some morning training helped loosen him up. Over breakfast, Leif shared the news of Seliph’s approach with the rest of the army, and Finn found his eyes drawn to Ced. In the midst of the relieved expressions worn by the soldiers around him, the prince’s face was stormy.

But the general optimism at castle Manster did not last long; scouts reported Thracian forces closing in from the south, and Seliph’s army, marching from the north, was still hours away. Manster prepared itself for siege, and Finn had no time to dwell further on the tension between the king of Silesse and his scion.

Once their armies reunited, they forged a path further into Thracia, leaving Manster behind to face the enemies from the south head on. By day they marched, fending off waves of dracoknights as they progressed down the peninsula, and by night they made camp and prayed King Travant would not resort to the underhanded tactics he was so known for, each soldier sleeping with their weapon close at hand.

Finn volunteered for more night watches than he was strictly obliged to, but being on the move made him restless; defending a castle was always easier. One night he waved away the boy who came to replace him for the second watch, and he sighed when he heard footsteps approaching him again a few minutes later.

“I told you, I’m alright, Robert, go to sleep—” he started to say, but was interrupted by a voice that had become unexpectedly familiar to him.

“Sir Finn,” Lewyn chided, “our most reliable knight will suffer in battle if he does not get enough rest.”

“I could say the same to you,” Finn replied as Lewyn settled to the ground beside him.

“Ah, but I don’t fight,” Lewyn corrected. “The loss of your instincts would be far greater.”

Lewyn _didn’t _fight—he shaped the course of each battle from deep in Seliph’s battalion, cushioned from the bloodshed. Finn often wondered why. Even if Ced now wielded Forseti, surely Lewyn had other magic…

But Lewyn didn’t give him a chance to voice his thoughts.

“You put Lord Leif at risk, pushing yourself like this,” he went on, and Finn scowled.

“I don’t need much rest,” he argued. He had conditioned himself to operate on only a few scant hours over the years.

“But it certainly couldn’t hurt, could it?”

Finn gritted his teeth. “I couldn’t sleep,” he confessed, without entirely meaning to. “So I might as well make myself useful.”

“Well, well,” Lewyn said, his smile growing. “I can help with that.”

When Finn woke the next morning, stretched out on the firm ground with a striped scarf serving as a pillow under his head, he didn’t remember the story Lewyn had told the night before, nor did he remember falling asleep to it. Lewyn was exactly where he had been hours before, cross-legged on the ground a few feet away, staring out at the mist rising from the grass beyond their camp.

Without moving, Finn took a moment to watch him unobserved. Lewyn’s expression was distant, devoid of the amused smirk he wore so often in Finn’s presence. The grave expression made him appear older than usual, with nothing to distract from the weary shadows under his eyes.

Casting his thoughts back nearly two decades, Finn tried to compare the man beside him to the bard he remembered from Sigurd’s army. Lewyn had rarely participated in the impromptu morning trainings that the knights organized, but he was usually nearby, perched in a tree or high on a parapet, plucking out a quiet tune to accompany the exerted grunts and dulled blows exchanged by the soldiers below. Finn recalled feeling annoyed whenever he caught sight of him—didn’t mages need to train their bodies as well?—but he never dared approach him about it. Even before he knew of Lewyn’s title, the bard was older than him, and he had quickly become one of Lord Sigurd’s trusted advisors. It wasn’t Finn’s place to criticize him.

Nor was it Finn’s place to be by his side like this, or to share drinks and stories like they were equals, friends. Their army was full of men and women of holy bloodlines and royal lineages, not all of them children, either. That Lewyn continued to seek Finn out, of all people, was baffling.

And yet, somehow Finn thought he understood it. They were both older now, both unlikely survivors of the same string of tragedies. They shared an understanding of this war that went beyond the righteous anger of their younger soldiers, who had been told of their fathers’ and mothers’ deeds secondhand. There was something comforting in that, Finn supposed, although he could only speculate if Lewyn considered him in the same way.

A breeze disturbed the rising mists in the field and stirred some loose strands of Lewyn’s hair. He closed his eyes, the slight motion breaking Finn from his reminiscences, and when he opened them, he turned to Finn. The slight curve returned to his lips when he realized he was being observed.

“I took the last watch,” he said as Finn pushed himself upright. “Nothing to report. The fog should clear by the time we’re packed up. If we’re lucky, it will be an easy day of marching.”

They weren’t lucky; dracoknights continued to swoop down from the mountains, and as they approached the border, they were met by Thracian ground forces as well. The country was not so welcoming as the north had been; here they were not seen as liberators, but intruders, but there was nothing they could do but press on.

When they finally captured Meath and were able to rest a night in the castle town after a week of camps, Finn wasn’t surprised when Lewyn found him late in the evening. Their bizarre ritual was starting to feel routine to Finn, and when they moved on from Meath, he almost found himself looking forward to it. When an enemy castle finally came into view, Finn found himself swinging his blood-crusted lance with renewed energy, bolstered not by the image of Thracia restored and Leif ascending the throne, but by the thought of a quiet evening and a story. It felt almost childish—as a knight, shouldn’t it have been his ideals and his duty which drove him through the day?—but if it was working, if it allowed him to cut down even one more soldier or bear just one more wound, then Finn decided there was no fault in it.

He _was _perplexed, though, as to why it was that after years of constant worry and tireless vigilance, he could allow himself to relax for a few hours only here by Lewyn’s side. The phenomenon made no logical sense; as a tactician Lewyn was cryptic at best, and Finn could never shake the sense that he knew more than he was telling any of them, even Seliph. And as a father, his attitude towards his children was incomprehensible to Finn. The man was an enigma, which, in a situation as precarious as theirs, should have been unacceptable. His advice had not yet led them wrong, but that was no guarantee of trustworthiness.

At the very least, Finn could comfort himself with the thought that the evenings he spent with Lewyn allowed him to keep an eye on him. Their tactician was notoriously difficult to track down otherwise—he found _you, _if he had something to say, and not vice versa. If Lewyn wanted to make a habit of regularly materializing by Finn’s side, Finn did not see any reason to complain.

But as much as he wanted to tell himself he was simply tolerating the bard’s presence, Finn knew that wasn’t exactly the case. But he felt a strange sort of guilt at admitting—even to himself—that he actually enjoyed Lewyn’s company. He had allowed himself to enjoy so few things over the past eighteen years—his own needs and desires had been pushed to the side over and over for the sake of Leif and Nanna. He didn’t regret the sacrifices—he would gladly sacrifice far more for the two of them—but now they had the luxury of being part of a larger, well-supplied army, where many of Finn’s day-to-day concerns were addressed before he even needed to think of them. As Lewyn was fond of pointing out, he could afford to rest more, and the army would still advance without his constant supervision.

In the last eighteen years, Finn had spent precious little time considering what he wanted, aside from the obvious—Leif on the throne and Thracia at peace. And now, given the space to think about it, he was surprised to realize that most nights, after his tasks were complete and he was sure their camp or castle was secure, what he wanted was the company of an erstwhile king and his endless stories.

Lewyn didn’t _always _play the bard when they were together; sometimes they simply talked. Their shared past came up less often than Finn expected—instead, they discussed the liberation army, or speculated on the state of the more distant regions of Jugdral. Once, Lewyn asked a few curious questions about Leif, and Finn hadn’t until realized that moment how much he had to say about the boy he had been guarding since he was barely older than a boy himself. Finn talked more than Lewyn did that night, about Leif and Nanna as children, about their desperate campaign across Thracia, and Lewyn seemed content to listen, watching Finn intently from where he lay sprawled across the couch they shared, his legs draped over Finn’s.

Lewyn still brought wine sometimes, but now it was only when he found something good, worth sharing. They sampled vintages from around the peninsula, and it was an almost comical juxtaposition of lavish and casual when Lewyn poured out a bottle that some nobleman had likely been saving for an honored guest, then proceeded to wile away the evening with bawdy tales meant for crowded taverns. Those nights, Finn often fell asleep with his head resting on Lewyn’s shoulder, and he woke still leaning on him, or with his head cushioned in Lewyn’s lap.

Long unaccustomed to such quiet intimacy, Finn’s thoughts shied away from considering it too much. But it was comfortable to wake up alongside someone—maybe too comfortable, because some mornings Lewyn had to nudge him awake, absently combing fingers through his hair as the sun broke the horizon outside.

There wasn’t any wine, the first time Finn kissed him.

He almost wished there had been, because then he would have had an excuse. But with the hostility they had faced from the Thracian people as they progressed through the peninsula, rations were slim, and Finn barely even ate after they set up camp in the foothills of the mountains near Kapathogia. Despite the situation, he found himself in high spirits—not only was King Travant finally dead, but Altena had been returned to them, and even days later the thought still brought tears to Finn’s eyes.

“You’re in a good mood,” Lewyn noted as he let himself in to Finn’s tent, with a smile that was less of a smirk than usual. “I hate to remind you that we still have quite a ways to go until Thracia is won over, if Arion continues to be so stubborn.”

Finn tried to covertly wipe his eyes, although he suspected Lewyn noticed regardless. The bard’s smile lingered as he made himself at home in the tent, settling cross-legged on the blankets piled on the ground which formed Finn’s makeshift bed.

“You were the one who told me it was wise to celebrate small victories,” Finn pointed out.

“Ah, that I was. I do wish I could drink to your continued happiness.”

Finn felt himself flush slightly. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know, I know,” Lewyn assured him. “You saw Altena when she returned from the villages on the coast, I imagine?”

“Yes. But she had a long day of flying, I thought it best to let her rest.”

“Prudent of you. Perhaps you should take your own advice.”

Finn scowled at the now-familiar chiding, but settled on the blankets next to Lewyn regardless.

“To find Altena alive is more than I ever dared wish for,” he said, after a pause. “I’m afraid to hope that we may actually see this through.”

Lewyn looked at him sideways. “Why? We’re only here because of two generations of men and women who dared to hope that they could change their fates. Some of them were right; some of them were wrong. But I would never fault them for having hope.”

It was the kind of line which may have come from one of his stories. Finn turned his head.

“And what are _your _hopes?” he wondered, meeting Lewyn’s eyes.

For an instant, Lewyn seemed surprised by the question, but his smile recovered quickly. “To see light restored to Jugdral. I thought that much was obvious, Sir Finn.”

“And after?”

His expression faltered again. “There will not be much use for me, after.”

“But you’re—”

“Ced will take the throne,” Lewyn interrupted. “And I will likely do what I always have.”

“And what is that?” Finn demanded.

“I’m a bard—I wander. I’ll enchant a few maidens with my beguiling songs and disappear before the dawn. I’ll meet a young man and teach him how to mold magic to his will before vanishing on the wind. I’ll—”

“Lewyn—”

_“Finn,” _Lewyn cut in, before Finn could make his protest. “You have made the mistake of presuming that you and I are in any way the same. Your frustration with my neglect of my homeland will not change anything.”

Finn pursed his lips. “You raised Julia just as I raised Leif and Nanna,” he began slowly. “You guide Seliph just as I do my best to guide Leif. Your advice moves this army. If you were truly the type to shirk responsibility, you would not be here—in fact, you would still be in Agustria. So why is it you avoid the throne?”

“I thought I told you before; you will not understand.”

Finn studied Lewyn for a long moment, taking in the shadows under his eyes and the droop of his lips, unsmiling for once. “…are you ill?”

Lewyn let out a humorless laugh. “Such touching concern.”

“You oversee our entire army. _Someone_ needs to be concerned about you.”

“And that task falls to you? Leif is your prime concern, Finn. Don’t let me distract you.”

“That’s _all _you’ve been doing!” Finn returned. Lewyn’s eyebrows lifted and his lips parted slightly in genuine surprise, as though he truly hadn’t realized.

“I’ll leave you be, if that’s what you want,” Lewyn offered, and Finn huffed as Lewyn made a motion as though to stand, and he caught him by the shoulder before he could move.

“Wait.”

A moment ago, he had asked the question without really thinking, but scanning Lewyn’s face, Finn started to wonder—_was _he ill? Aside from his hair, Finn had always thought Lewyn appeared almost unchanged from the bard Finn had known before this war—albeit somewhat thinner, perhaps. Rarely did he take note of the gray shadows under Lewyn’s eyes, or of his ashen complexion. Despite the old Lewyn’s preference for napping over training, there had always been a liveliness in his eyes—now, Finn found those same eyes dark.

He took Lewyn’s jaw in his hand, turning his face towards the light. Lewyn’s cheekbones had always been prominent—now his face edged on skeletal, and the candlelight in the tent only added to the illusion. Lewyn watched this inspection with a mild expression, eyebrows raised, but he didn’t protest the manhandling as Finn tipped his head from side to side.

It was somewhat of a relief to notice that Lewyn’s lips were touched with pink, not pallid like the rest of him.

Finn wasn’t sure what he was doing until he was halfway to doing it, at which point the action seemed as unstoppable as a swing of his lance. His lips touched Lewyn’s, soft and dry. For a moment, the air went still, and when Finn’s thoughts truly caught up, he flinched away, floundering. He released Lewyn’s face, but Lewyn caught his shoulder with one hand before he could move away

“Was that concern?” he asked, and the question was strangely sincere, and his eyes never left Finn’s, even while Finn glanced away.

Finn stammered “I…”

“Or maybe gratitude?”

Finn took a moment to consider the question. “Not entirely,” he decided at last. If nothing else, it had been an experiment, to see if his touch could draw some color into the wan face before him.

Lewyn’s lips had been warm, at least.

Lewyn said nothing in return. He only leaned closer and returned the same kiss, just a press of his lips against Finn’s, before tilting his head and opening his mouth just enough to run his tongue along Finn’s lower lip.

Even Finn was surprised by the subsequent shiver that ran down his spine.

Lewyn pulled back slightly. “Been a while, has it?” he asked against Finn’s lips.

When Finn’s only response was to draw away in stony silence, Lewyn chuckled. “It’s alright. Me, too.” He seemed to consider Finn’s face for a moment before releasing him and settling to the blankets again, touching the space beside him in a silent invitation.

Finn realized he wasn’t disappointed that the usually talkative bard had nothing to say to his half-confession; in fact, he decided that he preferred it this way. Defining whatever had formed between the two of them seemed like an unnecessarily arduous task; he had been all but certain he had locked all such feelings away when Lachesis disappeared into the Yied, which at the time had begun to feel like a place which was fated to swallow everyone he chose to love. He couldn’t even tell if these were the same feelings, or if it was something else, born of their peculiar situation in this peculiar war. Perhaps, he thought, the precise definition didn’t even matter. He fell asleep to the lull of Lewyn’s voice, and woke curled around a warm body, and that felt like enough.

The army marched on. They captured Thracia and retraced their steps back along the peninsula, to Miletos. Even with this major victor achieved, Finn’s unease only grew. Facing Travant and Arion had been one thing—even aided by priests of the Empire, they were still just men, and he understood them. But as they neared Grannvale’s borders, he couldn’t help but recall the unholy altar beneath Manster, and the cries of the captured children they had freed. He had never doubted the darkness that lurked at the center of the empire, but now they were marching towards it head-on.

Even as their battles grew more difficult, Finn did his best to recall that, in essence, nothing had changed. Their enemies were stronger, but they had grown stronger themselves, and when they finally saw the end of the war, Leif would ascend the throne and rule a newly united Thracia. There was something comforting in a goal that he had held unwavering for almost two decades.

But there was one evening when he simply couldn’t relax. He had lost count of how many times Leif had come within inches of death that day—it was as though the lances and swords and spells had all been drawn to him. He was with Nanna now, recovering nicely, but Finn was overflowing with restlessness. He tried to clean his lance and interrupted himself more than once to pace around his room before Lewyn appeared at the door.

His hands were empty, and Finn was somewhat relieved by that. He couldn’t drink now—the idea of dulling his senses, when he had come so close to losing Leif, triggered a pang of panic and guilt in his chest. Maybe Leif had come so close to danger _because _he had been so sidetracked, preoccupied by luxuries one such as him could not afford to indulge in the midst of war. If he had been more _focused—_

“Finn.” Lewyn’s voice cut through his thoughts, and Finn realized he had come very close to starting to pace again. He met Lewyn’s eyes silently, unwilling to turn him away, but reluctant to invite him in, too. Whatever the two of them were doing together…if it was a danger to Leif, Finn had to relinquish it.

“Leif is worried about you,” Lewyn went on. _About **me? **_Finn echoed internally. “He says he knows he was reckless today, and he apologizes.”

With a frown, Finn started for the door, but Lewyn caught his arm and tugged him towards the couch, instead.

_“And _he is now fast asleep,” he added. “Sit with me a while. And let me look at that cut.”

“What—?”

With an admonishing smile, Lewyn took a firmer grip on Finn’s arm, extending it so that Finn was forced to notice the bloodstain blooming on his upper left sleeve. He vaguely recalled assuming that the caked blood belonged to someone else, and he had promptly forgotten about it.

“Shirt?” Lewyn prompted, and Finn obediently removed it, wincing a little as the dried blood tugged at the clotted wound.

“Never quite got the hang of restore magic, I’m afraid,” Lewyn apologized as he cleaned the wound with a damp cloth. “Although this would probably be a waste of a spell. It isn’t deep.”

He neatly wrapped Finn’s arm in bandages and sat back, looking now to Finn’s face. “You’re still troubled,” he noted.

Finn sighed.

“Sometimes I wish we could go back already,” he confessed quietly. The army had left Thracia behind a week ago, and Finn found himself aching for home. “Thracia is united again, and yet we’re here…”

“You know, Seliph once said something similar,” Lewyn told him. “He asked me what we were doing in Thracia when our quarrel was with the empire. But I daresay you’re grateful that I steered him in your direction regardless.”

Finn let out a breath, embarrassed to have even voiced his thoughts. “Of course. And Thracia’s continued survival is dependent on the eradication of the empire, I know. There’s no time for homesickness.”

“You’re a man with a clear purpose,” Lewyn said simply. “That is your strength. You must only ensure it does not also become your weakness.”

He took Finn’s hand in one of his, tracing his thumb over the callouses there.

“You do not appear to be in the mood for stories,” he observed soberly. “Shall I leave you be?”

Despite himself, Finn raised an eyebrow. “It seems rather too late to ask me that.”

Lewyn chuckled. “In that case…” He raised Finn’s hands to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles, but he went still when Finn started to pull his hand back.

“I see,” he murmured, even though Finn said nothing; maybe Lewyn could see the residual panic in his eyes. “You still think this is your fault.”

“Leif—”

“—is perfectly fine, I told you,” Lewyn said. “And he _was _very reckless today. It’s a wonder you could keep up. I daresay he has learned his lesson.”

“He struggles with his lack of holy blood,” Finn said. “He sees Seliph and Altena and all the rest and thinks he has to do what they do, but he _can’t, _so—”

“So you must be his weapon, too,” Lewyn finished. Finn nodded.

“You know…” Lewyn mused, “even holy weapons need to be repaired and refreshed. Forseti will crumble if Ced isn’t careful with it. Even the mighty Gáe Bolg would shatter without attention.”

“I…know,” Finn said, confused. He had many memories of Lord Quan polishing his holy lance after each battle, claiming that even a speck of blood left to fester might cause the metal to rust.

“So if you are Leif’s weapon, perhaps you should consider yourself the same way,” Lewyn went on. “After a hard battle, a weapon should be given special care.”

The analogy was starting to come together, but Finn’s frown only deepened. “If you’re trying to tell me I should sleep, you might as well just say so.”

“Ahah, but that isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” Lewyn released his hand, instead tracing up his arm, past the new bandages, to cradle Finn’s jaw in his fingers, turning Finn to face him and touching his thumb to Finn’s lower lip.

Finn hesitated. “I…”

“He’s safe, Finn,” Lewyn said. “And worrying won’t change what could have happened today, nor will it change what happens tomorrow. But if you can’t stop worrying, let me help you.”

Finn remained still. “Why?”

It was an unfair question, Finn thought, since he himself couldn’t have pinpointed exactly why he had kissed Lewyn the first time, either. He had no illusions about love. Some kind of affection, perhaps, but not _love, _not for people as warped and broken by the past as they were. And if he had wanted to protest, he should have done so long ago, when he could have argued about Erinys and Ced and all the people Lewyn should have cared for instead of him. Now, he thought that despite what Lewyn said, he _was _starting to understand why Lewyn would have preferred his family to mourn him.

In response to his question, Lewyn just blinked, then shrugged a little, the ever-present smirk falling from his lips. “I can do so little else,” he said finally. “Isn’t that enough reason?”

A part of Finn wanted to argue—the tactician of the Liberation Army was far from powerless, and they had the results of dozens of battles to prove it. But a string of victories guaranteed nothing. Any successful army could eventually fall to the cruel hand of fate, and the two of them had experienced that truth firsthand.

In this moment, Finn could do nothing at all to change the destiny that might be laid out for him. So, letting out a breath, he relaxed into Lewyn’s touch.

Since that first tentative exploration in Thracia, Lewyn had kissed him a few more times—usually on the forehead or on top of his hair as he fell asleep, or lightly on his lips as Finn left his tent or his room for some morning training. It had become just another part of their ritual that Finn felt unwilling to question. But Finn had never kissed Lewyn like this—languid and warm, lips parted and breath mingling between them. Finn didn’t flinch this time, when Lewyn licked at the edge of his lip, and instead let their tongues slide together as Lewyn pressed closer to deepen the kiss, shifting to straddle Finn’s lap for a less uncomfortable angle.

He was lighter than Finn had expected, even for his lean frame. Briefly, Finn wondered again if Lewyn _was _sick, but the thought didn’t linger as Lewyn trailed his hands over Finn’s bare chest.

“You’re quite the decorated soldier,” Lewyn remarked, tracing the old scars and more recently healed wounds etched onto Finn’s skin. Finn smiled a little at the phrasing; there had not been any time for proper medals of honor in the chaotic times since Quan’s death, but Finn had always thought he preferred these badges to any ribbons or medals anyway.

But thinking of his scars brought anxieties bubbling to the surface of Finn’s mind again, even while Lewyn sucked a mark into his shoulder. Was there truly nothing he could do right now to make Leif’s continued survival more secure? Had he been wrong to think of his own desires for even a moment while the throne remained empty? What if—

Lewyn tutted against his skin, then slid off Finn’s lap and dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of him, the motion successfully interrupting Finn’s thoughts.

“Is this alright?” Lewyn asked with his slight smile as his deft fingers undid the buttons of Finn’s trousers. Finn could only manage a wordless nod.

The heat of Lewyn’s mouth was more than enough distraction—Finn’s thoughts went as blank as they did in the direst throes of battle, where instinct was his only guide. Heat pooled low in his belly, and he buried a hand in Lewyn hair, loosening the ribbon there and enjoying, tangentially, the feeling of smooth curls spilling over his fingers.

Lewyn pulled away just a little too early, and Finn moaned a protest before he could stop himself. When he cracked his eyes open, Lewyn was tilting his head towards the bed with a question in his eyes, and when he stood, Finn clambered to his feet and followed.

Lewyn shed his tunic on the few short steps to the bed. Trailing after him, Finn felt faintly dazed. When was the last time he had even been with another person like this? Maybe that was why his every action felt so clumsy, so unceremonious. He fumbled a little with the laces on Lewyn’s trousers and earned a small chuckle in response. When he looked up, Lewyn was just watching him, his hair loose and cascading around his shoulders in waves. With a frown, Finn decided to abandon his efforts with the laces for a moment to kiss him again, hard enough to force Lewyn’s eyes to fall closed. Lewyn smiled against his lips as he pulled away.

“What’s so funny,” Finn nearly growled into Lewyn’s neck. This position was advantageous—he could kiss the jut of Lewyn’s collarbone _and _hide his blush.

“I don’t know,” Lewyn replied, with unexpected honesty. “I’m just enjoying myself.”

With an irritated grunt, Finn made another one-handed attempt at the trousers, and this time managed to slip his hand past the waist, where he was somewhat relieved to find Lewyn as interested in their current activities as he himself was. Lewyn gave a breathy sigh as Finn stroked him, and he offered some help with the trousers until both of them were completely rid of their clothes.

Taking both of them in hand was enough sensation to overwhelm any remaining awkwardness—Finn established a rhythm, and he would have been perfectly content to bring them both to completion like this, for how long it had been since anyone had touched him. But Lewyn reached to still his movements, pointing vaguely with his other hand to where he had discarded his tunic. Some rummaging turned up a small corked vial, and Finn’s self-consciousness returned for a moment before Lewyn pulled him back to the bed and quieted Finn’s thoughts with his lips, uncorking the bottle as they kissed and guiding Finn’s fingers with his own.

Finn knew he wouldn’t last very long as he pressed into the heat of Lewyn’s body, but Lewyn seemed equally close, gasping with each snap of Finn’s hips and each twist of Finn’s fingers. He was beautiful—Finn wondered why he had never thought much about it before. His hair pooled beneath his head like a pile of emeralds, and his body formed a graceful arc as he moved to match Finn’s thrusts. He didn’t look so weary like this, with a flush on his cheeks and his eyelids fluttering—Finn wondered if it was the same for him.

When they both collapsed back to the sheets, panting and sated, Finn already felt sleep tugging at him, so when Lewyn spoke, Finn only remembered what he said later, when the words came back to him like memories of a dream dredged up halfway through the day.

“Hm,” Lewyn had hummed, seemingly content to remain wrapped in Finn’s arms. “If I ever return home and she smites me on the spot for everything I’ve done here, that may have been worth it.”

_“Return”? _Finn wondered as the army marched towards Peruluke the following day. _“She”?_

The words sank to the back of his mind as disaster struck in the city; Julia has vanished, and Lewyn grew pensive and taciturn in the days that followed as the army set upon a frantic chase to rescue the children captured by the empire.

But as Finn settled into the rhythm of battle, striking down enemy soldiers with practiced ease, the words kept drifting across his otherwise blank thoughts.

_Home? But Lewyn claimed he would never set foot in Silesse again. _

An arrow tore past Finn’s shoulder, not close enough for him to need to dodge it. He turned and cut down a swordsman advancing from the right, blood soaking his lance.

_“She”—but Queen Rahna and Erinys are dead._

Two knights on horseback were getting too close to Leif for comfort—Finn swept one from his mount in a fluid motion, then parried a blow from the second while Leif struck him from behind.

_Smite???_

But as their campaign in Miletos wore on, disjointed pieces of an inscrutable puzzle started to collect in Finn’s thoughts.

First it was the arrow. Finn wasn’t nearby, but he saw the bolt stray from the enemy’s volley, arcing further than the rest, soaring towards Seliph with deadly certainty. He was too far away and too slow to even shout; he could only watch in horror, forgetting the enemies right beside him for the moment and wondering if their efforts could really be crushed into the ground by such an unlucky accident.

Then the arrow shaft wobbled—Finn felt the breath of wind a moment later, an unseasonable gust sweeping across the field in entirely the wrong direction. The arrow buried itself in the ground beside Seliph’s horse, deep in the muddy grass.

In the center of Seliph’s battalion, Finn caught sight of Lewyn for a just a second—his hand outstretched, his eyes brighter than Finn could remember seeing them—before he was forced to turn and dodge a blow from an enemy soldier capitalizing on his distraction. The wavering arrow fell to the back of his mind.

He only remembered it several days later, when the distant cry of some nocturnal animal stirred him out of sleep in the middle of the night. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed Lewyn, lying on his back beside him with his arms folded behind his head, staring up at the fabric of the tent as though he could see straight through it. His green eyes almost seemed to shine in the faint glow of moonlight through the canvas, and Finn found himself thinking of the arrow again, and how he hadn’t seen Lewyn hold a magic tome since he had left Silesse with Quan and Ethlyn, two decades ago.

He drifted off to sleep again easily, but the next morning he woke to find Lewyn already folding blankets and tying up supplies, and he realized that he had never seen Lewyn sleep longer than him—and in fact, he had never seen Lewyn sleep at all, not since he had noticed him napping in the crook of a tree near the training yard in a castle in Silesse.

And then there were the scars. Finn had his share, as Lewyn had observed, but Lewyn’s scars were different. Half his torso was overtaken by a mass of twisted, white-gray skin, almost like candle wax, usually concealed beneath the folds of his tunic and scarf. Finn sometimes found himself tracing it when they lay together. Once, he caught Lewyn watching him, although the darkness in his eyes dissuaded Finn from asking about it.

But he had seen marks like that before—not as scars, but as wounds on the corpses of soldiers who had been the unlucky targets the Loptyrian priests’ dark magic. It was magic that killed. Part of him wondered how Lewyn had been so lucky—but part of him also wondered if he had, in fact, not been lucky at all.

The questions multiplied, but the army’s rush across the Miletos District left Finn little time to even think about how to ask them. Their campaign culminated in an assault on Chalphy and finally, a confrontation with the Emperor. Finn saw Arvis only from a distance, but even so, he could tell the man was only a shadow of what he had once been. There was a lot of that going around, it seemed.

Seliph’s return to Chalphy was surely a victory to celebrate, but a long strategy meeting in the castle’s war room only left Finn feeling numb. When Lewyn caught up to him afterwards and suggested a walk through the streets of the castle town, Finn saw no reason not to join him.

The dark streets were still strewn with crushed flower petals, remains of the parade that had welcomed Seliph home. It was late enough now that most of the celebrations had petered out—a few taverns still glowed with torchlight and echoed with the sound of drunken revelers, but many of the alleyways were quiet. The darkness was comfortably insulating; they spoke little as they walked, and Finn let the night air wash over his thoughts like a salve.

When Lewyn slowed his pace near an inn and tilted his head questioningly towards the door, Finn followed, dropped too much gold into the innkeeper’s hands, and thought of nothing else but appreciating the comforts of a feather bed and someone to share it with until well into the earliest hours of the morning.

But he couldn’t postpone his thoughts forever; as he lay on his side with one arm thrown around Lewyn’s waist, Finn marked out that waxy scar with his fingers, contemplating the twisted skin that branched out from a point below Lewyn’s heart, like lightning.

Lewyn, lying on his back with his hair pillowed like an emerald halo around his head, watched the slow movement of Finn’s fingers, and there was a warning edge in his gaze when Finn met his eyes. This time, Finn refused to let it deter him.

“Tell me what really happened at Belhalla,” he demanded, albeit quietly, his hand coming to rest against Lewyn’s ribcage. The scar was rough under his fingers, and slightly cool to the touch.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Lewyn asked mildly. “I would prefer not to tell that story until I can give it a proper ending.”

“Not the story, not the _ballad,” _Finn pressed. “What happened to _you _at Belhalla? Or were you always…” He searched for the words and came up blank, still reluctant to voice his conclusions aloud.

But apparently Lewyn was not inclined to be helpful at the moment. “Always…?” he prompted, eyes glinting.

Finn exhaled. “Always…not…human.”

To his surprise, Lewyn laughed a little as the words left his lips, not in a mocking tone, but as though Finn had made a clever joke. “Well, that’s an interesting question. I’m the most human I’ve ever been!”

_Oh._

Finn drew back slightly, propping himself on one hand to look down at Lewyn resting languidly on the sheets.

“Don’t be afraid,” Lewyn intoned. “That’s what we told them at Darna, too. There is nothing about me you need fear. Especially not in _this _state.”

He gestured vaguely to himself with a small smile that didn’t touch his eyes. Finn tried to order his racing thoughts.

“So, you’re…”

“I’m Lewyn,” Lewyn said simply, and when Finn’s brow creased, he added, “and Lewyn was human. But I am also Forseti, who decidedly is _not_. Don’t ask me how I did it. Desperate times, and all. Lewyn would never admit it, but he wanted so badly to help his friends. That final prayer of his was among the most earnest I have ever heard.”

“And was this what he prayed for?” Finn asked doubtfully.

“I think in that moment he would have done anything,” Lewyn replied. “But I could only do _one _thing. Some god I am, eh?”

Finn didn’t answer—how could he? The vague conclusions he had formed over the past few days had seemed to fit in well with the strange rumors and old legends that reached their ears the closer they got to the Empire, about ancient dragons and blood rituals…but hearing his suspicions confirmed still left him reeling. He glanced over Lewyn’s face and his bare torso, wondering if he should have noticed sooner.

“What are you looking for, scales?” Lewyn asked. “This body is human, I told you. Don’t you think you would have cut yourself on my fangs by now if it wasn’t?”

He winked, and Finn wondered how much of this cavalier attitude was Lewyn, and how much was the god inhabiting his body. He wondered if even Lewyn knew.

Lewyn’s smile faded, and he sighed. “You are thinking about it far too much, Sir Finn,” he said, reaching up to poke Finn between the brows. “Does it matter so much what I am?”

Did it? For what this was—a small comfort, a respite from inescapable war—Finn supposed the answer was no. And he had hardly known Lewyn before Belhalla, back in Silesse, so it wasn’t as though he could actually miss who the man in front of him had once been.

But it had been hard enough to reconcile Lewyn’s apparent affection for him when he still thought of the man as a king. Now, knowing his true nature, this entire ritual that they had built up over the course of a war seemed even more confounding.

“For you, is something like this really…”

Lewyn’s lips turned up at the corners, mischievous. “You sell yourself short.”

In answer, Finn only deepened his frown, and Lewyn sighed.

“Honestly…I can explain so little of what I do, even to myself,” he said.

“That is not comforting, coming from our tactician.”

“Heh. So ungrateful. Have I led you wrong yet?”

Finn settled back to the sheets, still on his side, but not quite as close. “I suppose not.”

Lewyn ran his own fingers over his scar. “Ever since I woke up in Belhalla, I’ve been following the whims of the wind,” he said. “Dragonkin have longer sight than humans—but I lost some of that when I took on this body. So, on a grand scale, I drift around on my instincts. I stumble across a girl dazed outside Belhalla, care for her as best I can, and wonder why her face looks so familiar. I teach a young man magic and wonder why _his_ face looks so familiar. I hire an advisor for a prince of Leonster…and when those things are done, when I have space in between…I used to wander. But when I found you at Leonster I thought, maybe this is another man who was formed into what he is now by those grim days of the past, who has nothing waiting for him in the gaps of his purpose, and maybe we could _both _do with a way to pass the time before our duties call on us again.”

He stared at the ceiling, his hand going still. “Maybe Lewyn would have done differently. Or maybe his blood bound him to this fate, and he _couldn’t _have done differently. But…the two of us are not so unique, Lewyn and I. We share a love of stories and people to tell them to. We share an affection for music and an inability to settle too long in one place. And…”—he smiled slightly, laughing to himself—“we share an apparent weakness for blue-haired knights with a near-idiotic devotion to their ideals.”

Finn narrowed his eyes, thinking again of how he had barely known the Lewyn of the past, and Lewyn smiled at his confusion. “He was rather fond of Sigurd, even when he thought him a fool,” he elaborated. “And maybe that’s part of why I’m here, too. The truth is…I don’t _know _what I am anymore. Do a man’s memories make me that man? Or is he just a mask I wear to make my meddling in this world more palatable?”

Finn had nothing to say to his questions. His eyes traced Lewyn’s profile, searching for _what, _he wasn’t sure. Lewyn wasn’t lying to him—in fact, Finn doubted he had ever lied to him. Finn felt no sense of betrayal, and he wasn’t even sure he felt surprised, now that his initial shock had faded. 

Lewyn turned to him, now without a trace of a smile on his face. Instead his eyes were hollow, his lips drawn with weariness, and Finn didn’t see a mask—he only saw a man, whose faintly lined face reflected the weight Finn felt crushing his own shoulders.

“Was this what you expected, when you asked?”

“I…don’t know,” Finn admitted. The pieces in his mind had never truly resolved into a solid conclusion.

“This war is only going to get stranger,” Lewyn warned. “As we march on Grannvale, the true consequences of the interference of my kin in this world will come to light—and even I don’t yet know what those are. It could be that this is my last chance to tell you a story.”

“This is war,” Finn pointed out. “That was always the case.”

“True enough,” Lewyn agreed. “In that case, is there anything you would like to hear?”

~ ~ ~

Even if his divine foresight had been diminished by his human body, Lewyn’s prediction proved correct—Grannvale’s forces descended on Chalphy from all sides, and it was all Finn could do to survive each day and collapse for a few hours wherever he could before returning to the front lines. Lewyn was by Seliph’s side almost constantly, his expression always grave.

And as Lewyn had promised, the war got stranger. Word of the Deadlords and the fell creature they protected filtered through the army, and while a part of Finn wanted to seek Lewyn out for some reassurance that he had always had a plan for this stage of the fight, a larger part of him was afraid of what Lewyn might tell him.

In the end, he wasn’t sure any reassurances could have prepared him for what they faced at Belhalla. The Deadlords were terrifying. If dragon blood made men this powerful, Finn wondered why it was that Lewyn wasn’t the Liberation Army’s most formidable soldier.

He never saw the Dark God himself, but he heard its death cries. His horse shied when the ground shook, and when Finn managed to placate her, it was all over.

In the aftermath, he fussed over Leif for as long as Nanna would allow him before she all but shoved him into a cot in Belhalla’s barracks. He was asleep before he even touched the mattress.

He saw Lewyn only in passing over the next few days. Crossing a courtyard in Belhalla Castle, he spotted the bard balanced on the railing of an upper balcony, plucking tunelessly at a lyre—Lewyn raised a hand in greeting, and Finn waved back, half-expecting Lewyn to appear beside him once he was back inside. But when he didn’t, Finn wasn’t disappointed, either.

He couldn’t remember the last story Lewyn had told him, back in Chalphy.

Leif and his entourage wasted no time in making preparations to return to Thracia. Finn occupied himself with sorting rations and readying horses, checking in on Leif in between tasks to ensure the wounds he had sustained in the final battle were healing well.

Returning from a supply run one evening, he spotted a figure reclining on the grassy slopes outside the castle walls and pulled up his horse beside him. Lewyn looked like he was sleeping, but Finn knew better.

“Good evening, Sir Finn,” Lewyn greeted him, after a pause. “Aren’t you going to dismount?”

Finn did so, only because it seemed a little rude to talk to a man lying on the ground from horseback. “What are you doing?”

Lewyn inhaled deeply before answering. “Listening,” he said. “Nearly two decades now, and I can still hear them.”

He didn’t need to clarify—even if Finn hadn’t been present for the battle, he could still imagine what these fields had looked like the day Sigurd’s army was betrayed, could picture the fire and the screams, although he was sure his mind didn’t do the scene justice.

“But I think they’re quieter now,” Lewyn went on, opening his eyes. “They know their story will be told. They can rest.”

He glanced sideways at Finn, a smile quirking his lips. “And don’t worry, Sir Finn. Your role will be properly documented in the ballad I compose.”

“That…isn’t necessary,” Finn muttered, but Lewyn was already relaxing into the grass again, his expression going blank.

In less than a week, the Thracian unit was ready to depart.

On the steps of the castle, Seliph embraced Leif and Nanna, and Finn was surprised when the future king pulled him into a hug as well. Lewyn just clasped Finn’s hand and met his eyes, that old smile playing around his lips.

“Thank you, Sir Finn,” he said, and he didn’t have to say that he meant his gratitude for more than just the strength of Finn’s lance.

Finn nodded once, mounted his horse, and didn’t look back.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

Finn shouldn’t have been surprised when Lewyn found him.

The Yied, Finn had long ago decided, was every bit the hell he had always imagined it to be, but in the last three years he thought he had at least started to grasp its fickle moods. He knew how to navigate by the sun and the stars when the distant mountains on the horizon faded into the haze, he knew how much water to carry to last him to the next outpost, and he knew how to spot sandstorms with plenty of time to retreat to safety—or so he thought.

When he came to, his skin felt scorched. There was sand everywhere, in his mouth, under his eyelids, weighting down his limbs, and he wondered if this was how Quan and Ethlyn had felt, bleeding out under the scorching sun—or if Travant had been merciful, and killed them quickly before they baked to death. He felt certain now, at least, that Lachesis _must _have died out here, if she truly had ventured into these dunes all those years ago. He had found no sign of her in any of the villages he had visited on his slow trek, and there was only so much desert left to comb.

So it was fitting that he die here, too, he reasoned. He would have preferred something less ignominious than being half-buried and waiting for either dehydration or wild animals to claim him, but there was nothing to be done for it. His horse was nowhere to be seen, and his lance was gone along with her—even if he could free himself, he had no means by which to cut short his misery.

He was slipping out of consciousness when a shadow blocked the afternoon sun.

_“Just in time,” _he thought he heard, but he could have just as easily imagined it.

Then the sands around him shifted, and someone was hauling him up by the armpits and pouring cool water over his head.

Finn spluttered, but he was powerless to resist as the stranger rinsed his face, gently coaxing the sand from his ears, eyes, and mouth. Then, more water was tipped between his lips, and Finn drank deeply, coughed half of it back up, and drank again.

When his sight finally cleared, Finn blinked up at his rescuer, a tall figure swathed in pale fabric, with curls of green hair escaping their head cloth. His vision resolved further, and Finn thought to himself, _of course it’s him. _

Lewyn didn’t look happy to see him—his eyes were as dark as the clouds of sand that had overtaken Finn hours before.

“Were you trying to die?”

Finn couldn’t answer, even if he had had an answer to offer. Lewyn didn’t wait for him; he hauled Finn to his feet and wrapped his head in a cloth, shielding most of his face and exposed skin from the sun. He helped Finn mount one of two horses waiting nearby, then hopped up behind him, kicking the horse into a walk and tugging the other behind on a lead rope. After a few more painful blinks, Finn recognized the animal following them as his own, still with the long shape of his wrapped lance strapped to her back.

“How—” he croaked, but Lewyn hushed him.

“It’s a long ride back to Thracia,” he said. “Rest, and in the meantime, I’ll tell you a tale I heard. It all starts with a knight of Chalphy—or perhaps, I should say it starts over a hundred years before…”

Lewyn’s voice fell into the familiar rhythm of a well-practiced tale, and if Finn only heard the even rumble of his voice against his back, it didn’t matter; he knew the story well.


End file.
